The Thread
by Queen Bookworm the First
Summary: QLFC Round 4


**Quidditch League **

Team: Wimbourne Wasps

Position: Beater 2

Prompt: "Uh… no thanks. No snip snip." - Bob's Burgers

Thank you to Esme and TQA for being amazing betas!

* * *

He is a little over a year old the first time it happens.

The soft glow of a candle sheds light upon the spindle, its prying fingers grazing over the sharp tip of the needle. Three figures gather around it, their presence almost dimming the flame's brightness.

One is a crone, her hair a soft whisper of silver against the wrinkled folds of her pale face. Her black eyes are small, squinting. She holds a thread that glows green.

One is a young maiden, her hair a bright gold that sways with every movement. Her fingers sweep over the thread as she closes her eyes. In her mind, she sees a flash of green and a red-haired woman falling to the ground. She hears a baby's cry, the words _Avada Kedavra_.

One is a girl who appears no older than five. Her rosy lips are fixed in a pout, occasionally forming an 'o' as she blows her black hair out of her face. Her shoulders droop as she holds metal shears.

And at their feet lie the red-haired woman and a man with glasses. Their eyes are no longer glassy and lifeless, but instead a little dimmer than those of their counterparts in the dimension of the living.

The maiden opens her eyes, letting out a long breath. "It is time."

The girl lets out a shriek of delight, as she had just moments earlier when she had cut two threads belonging to the couple at her feet. The shears slice open with a hiss while the maiden positions the thread.

"Uh… no thanks. No snip snip," says the man urgently, quickly standing up. His companion gapes at him.

"'No snip snip?' That's all you can say?" she mutters, letting out a huff. "Our son's life is at stake, and all you have to say is 'no snip snip'." Tossing her hair out of her face, she glares at each of the Fates. "I gave up my _life_ for him. You will let him live," she says, her voice cracking. She grabs her husband's hand, a tear rolling down her cheek. "_Please._"

"Fate cannot be bent to the whim of mere mortals," the crone whispers, her eyes steely. And it is true. For as long as the world has existed, long before magic first sparked, fate has always ruled. As the years passed, buildings have risen and crumbled to dust. Men and women have turned on each other, swords have clashed, blood has been spilt. Heroes have been born, and villains have fallen. And in the end, they all end up the same.

They all end up as threads in the hands of fate. Another sentence that the crone writes into the book that records the world.

But sometimes, fate clashes with another age-old being: chance. The battles of mortals fade in comparison with the never-ending war between fate and chance.

Fate is the hourglass.

Chance is the occasional grain of sand that doesn't slip through.

And for some reason, chance has chosen to smile upon the green thread between the blades of the shears.

"A life for a life," the maiden speaks, her eyes never leaving the thread. "The boy's future has changed." In her mind, she sees a boy in a cupboard, a wand with a phoenix feather, the word _Expelliarmus_.

The girl drops her shears with a pout.

And just like that, a green-eyed boy becomes the Boy Who Lived.

* * *

He is seventeen years old the second time.

The red-haired woman and the man with the glasses are gone, but the crone, the maiden, and the girl remain. They always remain.

Through seventeen years, they've seen many come and go. A man who fell through a veil. An old man who accepted his death as he fell off a tower. A free elf. A werewolf and his lover. A man who never wanted anything but love from a woman who would never love him back. The threads have grown shorter as another black thread continues on.

The Fates have seen their share of souls. They've seen their share of love, of hate, of anger, of despair. They've seen mothers taken from their children, children taken from their mothers. They've seen families become mere remnants of a sweet memory. But ever since the black thread first started on the spindle, the shears have been slicing down more often.

The Fates are hard at work, spinning and measuring and cutting. Spinning and measuring and cutting. Spinning and measuring and cutting in an endless cycle as a black thread flows and a green thread suddenly _stops_.

The maiden watches the thread fall to the ground, the glow of life fading bit by bit. The girl closes her shears with a satisfied smile.

But sometimes chance smiles twice.

The thread starts to shimmer again, and as it rises, a small knot forms at the end. The girl's lips part, her brows furrowing. The crone's fingers never leave her spinning, but her eyes are fixed on the green thread as it returns to the spindle. The maiden's eyes widen, and she reaches out to touch the thread with shaking fingers.

She sees a clash of red and green. And as the green thread continues to flow, the girl lifts her shears, and the blades come slicing down on the black thread.

When it falls to the ground, it looks like all the rest. Because villains may be powerful, and they may be cunning and evil and vile, but they die the same way as everyone else. Their lives end when their thread does.

The green thread flows on beyond the knot, beyond its brief interlude of death.

And just like that, a green-eyed boy becomes the Boy Who Lived Twice.

* * *

He is one hundred and seven years old when it doesn't happen.

The girl lets out a giggle, lifting up her shears. Her little arms tremble as she opens them. The golden-haired maiden positions the thread. The shears close.

And just like that, a green-eyed boy becomes the Boy Who Died.


End file.
